


Carnassial

by TearoomSaloon



Series: Bite Down [6]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Blood, Dark, Dark Romance, Dark fluff, F/M, Kylo is a giant evil puppydog, Mild Gore, Rey gets injured, and he LOSES HIS COOL, yellow eyed kylo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 02:12:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7871719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TearoomSaloon/pseuds/TearoomSaloon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carnassial Teeth: Molar and premolar teeth modified for shearing flesh by having cusps with sharp cutting edges. They are typical of animals of the order Carnivora.</p><p>He has a temper, she's always known he has a temper. But now she is bleeding out and hell has opened to unleash this knight upon her attackers.<br/>She's scared. Not of him, but of what he's capable of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carnassial

There is a time and place for fear.

In the desert when the winds would pick up and the sands could bury her alive; when the jungle threatened to swallow her whole and sink her down into muddy depths; when the sky cracked open and fire shrieked across the canopy from a lightning strike—those were times for fear. Here, with her feet planted firm on the ground and a blade in her hands, she should not feel the same fear. But it crawls from its prison where it stays locked inside her mind, trickles down her nerves, intestines, and spine. In the face of so much evil, it is moronic to be brave. With no one behind her, courage becomes her self-administered poison.

There is no hope on a battlefield like this, so she runs.

There are too many of them. They are all too large, too well equipped, and all trained beyond her worth. She was stupid to think herself a formidable opponent to such a large force. This was a suicide, intentional or not.

She slips down the rain-soaked slope of a rocky mountain pass. Her boots skid and she is sent into a stumbled jog, twirling wildly to remain on her feet. It’s difficult and she barely manages, landing crooked on an ankle. _Dammit_. Running is made of a white-hot fury now, a pain greater than her bones.

A vibroblade is stuck to her neck when she finally collapses at the bottom of the mountain. She has no energy left to fight, or to run. Her reinforcements won’t make it in time; it was careless to go alone. She didn’t think, didn’t plan—

The maw of the weapon sinks into her shoulder and she howls, her skin and muscle cauterized as they are seared down to the bone. Something snaps again and she is down on all fours. Blood pools at her feet, around her eyes. She coughs and the sound is horrible, as if the air has been suctioned from her lungs.

She is hauled off on her broken foot, made to walk for hours on a damaged body. When their destination is reached, she is thrown at the feet of her greater enemy. He is not human and what suffices as a smile makes an uneasy tremor begin to rattle in her teeth. She feels sick listening to the foreign words drifting from their mouths, spilling like vile venom into her ears.

A fever builds as an infection spreads. Her ankle swells and her shoulder throbs, leaving her unable to sleep properly. Faces blur. Sounds intensify. The world is too cold, but it is also too hot. The ground shifts under her when the world stands still.

She doesn’t recognize her savior at first. There is a great darkness, and then there is red. She is extracted from her prison by a black cloak and ferocious yellow eyes. Sticky blood is smeared across his face and his teeth are bared—bloody. Him mad in the eyes and her mad in the head, the idea of him settling a score with the snap of powerful bloodstained jaws doesn’t seem preposterous to her. He smells of iron and burnt flesh.

He jostles her too much and she screams, causing him to freeze.

“Which one of them did this to you?” His voice rumbles like an oncoming storm, thunder bellowing in his chest.

Was she being…saved? By her mortal enemy? Was he her knight in sour armor, come to free the imprisoned young warrior?

She can’t get enough air to answer, but she thinks a hazy image in her mind, certain he’ll see. Certain that’s how he found her in the first place.

He passes her along too soon and she leaves the warmth of his body for the freezing metal of a transport ship. There is nothingness inside; there is no feeling other than the cool air. She hears his boots clank on the durasteel floor when he finally returns. There’s a drip, drip, drip from his clothes and hair. She manages to open her eyes enough to see him, but just a little. He is smeared with red and shaking, unsteady like a once-sturdy oak in a violent storm. He breathes heavily out of his nose and she can’t vocalize a response. She’s too weak.

The image of his unhinged blood-soaked form disappears as her fever worsens. She can hear his voice through a fog, or through a turbulent sea, listening through the ice. There are medics nearby. People and droids stand ready to assist in her recovery. His voice is always the deepest in the room, always the undertow that pulls her further out into the murky waters.

When she wakes a little more clear-headed, he is seated by her bedside. Asleep. One hand is rested upon the hilt of his saber, the other tries in vain to hold up his heavy head. When she moves to test her pain, he stirs at the sound of her discomfort.

“How are you feeling?”

“Why did you save me?”

With a sigh, he moves over, rests his forearms on her bed, and kisses her brow. “You know why,” he says, his voice smooth and low.

Mortal enemy. Careful lover. Sometimes, the lines blur. She turns her head to the other side, inviting him to press into the crook of her neck. The warmth of his breath chills her clammy skin. “Did you get them all?”

He spits fire. “No.”

“Did you intend to?”

He sits up, forces her to look above to see the ferocity in his face. His teeth are bared, great big canines exposed like the fangs of a wild dog, uncontrollable and vicious. Saffron eyes flicker dark, piercing but still a sickly yellow. He has changed so since they met, growing more beastly each waking hour. Anger looks worse on him now; his coiled restraint is more liable to snap.

“I’m not finished. Not until they all pay for their misdeeds.”

“You don’t have to—”

“They _hurt_ you,” he growls. Then, he crumbles. “There was so much blood when I found you. You were white as a sheet, growing paler by the second.”

Weakly, she raises her good arm out to him. He takes her hand, kisses her palm, and settles down beside her. His head on her pillow and his fingers in her hair, she drifts into a fitful sleep. In dreams, his hungry, rage-filled eyes hover above her every step.

 • • •

She dreams of the first time they’d met outside of the war, on a different sort of battlefield. His snarl is beastly and his eyes trace her body the way a predator sizes up prey. He gauges how much energy he needs to stalk her, how much power is required to hunt her down. She’s quick, though. She’s faster than he anticipated. Still, he catches her when she makes an error and in his arms she is trapped.

 _“I see your dreams,_ ” he says low, still pinning her arms to her body. _“You dream of me so often. Why?_ ”

 _"I don’t know. You dream about me, too._ ”

“ _But I know why_.” He turns her around slowly, rests his hands upon her waist. She is oddly comforted; as if this were a routine they had, him holding her close. “ _You mesmerize me_.”

That first battle ends when her fingers climb into his hair, when lips meet and she feels full, for once. Feels like she has found a place to belong, in the depths of her enemy’s heart. His kiss is sweet at first, but it grows hungrier. It takes a few more encounters for her to realize he is insatiable, that his wants go on for eons and he craves her with every breath. His love is frightening, but not obsessive. He is respectful, if not overprotective.

Wildly overprotective, she is reminded when she wakes.

He is talking (she thinks it’s talking, but it sounds more like an animal’s bark) to the guard who enters her room. With his final sharp words, the stormtrooper takes leave, not turning his back on his ever high-strung superior.

When he turns back to her, the aggression in his face softens. “Did I wake you?”

“What do _you_ think?”

He chuckles before looking from her to the bed and back, making a small gesture with his head. She concedes, shuffling carefully to the other side so he may lie beside her. It’s cramped, but his arms provide a comfort she’s been without for too long. Their predicament is truly a pity.

“Do you remember our first time?”

She laughs softly at the absurdity of the subject change. “What makes you ask?”

“You were hurt then, too.” He kisses her neck a bit too sensually—he’s trying to haggle with her. “I wanted to go slowly, didn’t want to hurt you. But you wanted it _rough_ , wanted me in _control_.” More kisses, oh, he’s doing a good job of warming her up. “I made you feel so good, sweetheart.”

It’s the pet name that does her in. Her shoulder is mostly better by now, so she lets him strip her quickly before she sinks into the mattress. His arms are so big they act like guard rails, keeping her close under his body. She reaches up to stroke his hair. “I love you,” she says softly, beckoning him down to kiss.

He’s aggressive, pinning her arms back over her head when his teeth drag on her lips. “I’m yours.”

Her beloved monster, a terrifying beast to all who threatened her. But he is rough with his actions, doesn't know his own power. He sucks a nipple into his mouth until it bleeds, unaware of the damage he inflicts. He is a Bantha in a ceramic shop.

He twists her the wrong way and she cries out, a wound reopening. Panic sets into his face and he redresses, covering her modesty before leaving for a medic. When she is rebandaged, he sits glumly at her side, apologizing over and over for the pain he caused. She cannot calm him and he exits with a kiss to her brow and a promise of ‘fixing things.’

Which means he returns once again soaked in blood.

This time the fury leaks into his mannerisms, how he speaks to her. There is a blade in his tone and a sword in his words. He tells her something she cannot understand through his anger and gives her a kiss fueled more by poison than love. Her mouth tastes of iron for hours after he departs.

He slinks back when she sleeps and the sound of his shuffling rouses her. The beast seated at the foot of her bed looks sorry for himself; his aureolin eyes dim in the nighttime. She raises an eyebrow and he takes a breath. “I frightened you.”

“You do that frequently.”

He looks away. “I’m sorry.”

She reaches out to him and he takes her inch a mile, crawling up to lay his head between her breasts, careful of her shoulder and foot. He may be feral, but she is safe near him. She can protect herself, but when she fails, he will always be there. “I remember the second time we slept together better,” she says, drawing back from the question he posed. She weaves her arms around him tightly, listening to his breathing.

“It was slow. Gentle.” He rises on his forearms to give her a quick kiss before settling back down. “I told you I loved you.”

“I said it back.” She wants to scoot down to kiss him again, but his head is heavy and her shoulder is stiff. “I’ve never slept better than I did in your arms that night.”

He shifts to lie beside her and wraps one arm around her waist. “I want to steal you away. Or come to power myself so I can keep you by my side.” He kisses her cheek, her brow. “Come away with me.”

“You know I can’t.”

“I know.” He chuckles. “It’s a wistful dream.”

“Someday.”

He agrees with a kiss, tracing patterns on her skin until she falls asleep.

In the morning, she wakes to find the sweetness of the night has melted away. He is pinning her down, the weight of his pelvis against her hips. The smile he wears is devious and kicks her heart into a race. He lowers down, grazing his teeth across her neck. “Rough and gentle, one after the other. What do you say, sweetheart?”

“I say you need to bite a little harder.”

He does and she moans, hips bucking uselessly underneath his frame. “I don’t need to be told twice.”

Oh no, no he didn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> Just so you know, yes, I am laughing in hell because of that ending.


End file.
